Sick Day
by merduff
Summary: When Wilson comes down with the flu, House decides to take a sick day.
1. House

Unlike the Boomtown Rats, House didn't actually mind Mondays. They were practically an extension of the weekend, only in the office. Cuddy didn't start to get antsy about his caseload — or lack thereof — until closer to mid-week, he was almost never scheduled for clinic duty, and his team knew better than to bother him with their trivial concerns until after lunch. Except they had a file waiting for him when he walked into the conference room, which was a clear violation of Monday protocol.

"Thirty-nine-year-old female," Foreman said, leading off with the boring information.

"A clear case of denial," House pronounced, before Foreman could prove that he'd cleverly memorized a list of symptoms. "No woman is really 39. Tell her forty is the new thirty and discharge her."

"That wasn't a symptom. And she was born in 1969, so that makes her 39."

"Only if she told the truth on her admitting form." But House was already tired of that game, so he gestured for Foreman to continue.

"She was admitted with sinus tachycardia and shortness of breath. Original diagnosis was an anxiety attack, but the tachycardia has continued intermittently and now she's complaining of flank pain."

"What else?" House asked, starting to get interested despite the day of the week.

"Persistent headaches and vertigo, elevated heart rate and blood pressure. Blood tests showed high levels of erythrocytes."

"Secondary polycythemia," Kutner said. "Is she an athlete? Could be a side effect of blood doping or high altitude training."

"Not according to the history," Foreman replied. "No plane travel in the last year, and she's lived on the Jersey Shore most of her life," he added, anticipating the next suggestion.

"Which brings its own problems," Taub commented. "Does she smoke? Lung disease could be causing hypoxia."

"Not a smoker," Foreman said, "though that doesn't rule out lung disease."

"Could be renal cancer," Thirteen suggested. "Elevated erythrocytes in combination with diminished kidney function could cause the cardiovascular symptoms."

"But not the neurological symptoms," Foreman replied.

"Oh, you and your neurological symptoms," House said. "You'd think you were a neurologist or something. Get a CT of the kidneys. And the lungs while you're at it. And if those are negative, give her a stress test to check cardiovascular function." That would keep them busy for a couple of hours, plenty of time for him to catch up on all the porn that had filled his inbox over the weekend.

He was making his third cup of coffee of the day and considering investigating what the cafeteria was serving for Mystery Meat Monday when the troops trooped back in. From the look on their faces, it was Thirteen one, Taub nothing.

"Lungs are clear," Foreman confirmed, holding up the scans. "But there's a mass in the left kidney. Looks like a cyst to me, but we should get Oncology to take a look at the scans."

"Page Wilson." He peered out the window across the balcony. Wilson's office was dark. That was odd. He was fairly certain Wilson didn't have any off-site appointments and he knew he didn't have clinic hours. When there was no response to the page, he tried Wilson's cell phone, but it went straight to voicemail. He hung up without leaving a message. "Page him again," he ordered and started to pace the length of the room.

Anomalies bothered him, and Wilson showing up late was an anomaly. The last time that had happened, he had been helping Cuddy go baby shopping, which turned out to be a disaster from start to finish. And he wasn't prepared to think about the four-month-long Wilson gap in the office next door. He grabbed the scans and brought them to the sliding door as a makeshift light source, though it was only a pretext to confirm that the office was still dark and empty.

"Go find out why he's ignoring me," he told Kutner, glaring at the scans as if they were responsible for Wilson's absence.

A few minutes later Kutner returned, accompanied, House noted with disapproval, by Roland, one of Wilson's senior oncologists. "Wilson called in sick," Kutner said quickly, before House could make one of the inappropriate comments that were flickering through his mind for selection. "Dr. Roland will take a look at the scans for us."

House tried to pretend that the concern he felt was purely for his patient. It wasn't that he didn't trust Roland; it was that he didn't trust anybody other than Wilson. But it really didn't matter, because somewhere between being annoyed with Wilson for calling in sick and wondering how sick he actually was, the symptoms on the whiteboard suddenly made sense, and he knew he didn't really need an oncologist's opinion. So he let Roland give one.

"Thank you for stating the obvious," he sneered, once Roland confirmed that the mass in the kidney was a cyst. "I'll be sure to let Wilson know that everything is running absolutely mundanely in his absence." He watched Roland carefully for a reaction, curious to see whether he'd rise to the bait.

But Roland was known throughout the hospital for his limitless patience, if not for his imagination. "If you don't need me for anything else," he replied mildly, "I'll get back to covering the rest of Dr. Wilson's duties."

House let him go. Wilson would have stayed, would have looked at all the symptoms holistically, and questioned the pathology of the cyst. Foreman might get to the final answer on his own — the neurological symptoms actually were important this time — but Wilson would have sped the process along.

The patient wasn't in any danger of deteriorating, so House decided to let the fellows arrive at the diagnosis without him. They were supposed to be learning, after all. And he had a more important case to diagnose.

"Where are you going?" Thirteen demanded, when House pushed open the door. "We haven't finished here."

"I have," House replied breezily. "Call me when you catch up." He tried to ignore the unwelcome worry in the pit of his stomach. Wilson hardly ever called in sick. If he wasn't feeling well, he cancelled his patient appointments, but he still came in to deal with paperwork and administrative duties.

House stalked down the hall to the Oncology department, stopping in front of Wilson's assistant and glaring until she looked up from the file she was reading. She glared back at him. "Let me hear the message he left," House demanded, once they'd made their mutual annoyance clear. House actually liked Pendleton, at least as much as he was willing to like anybody. She was smart and organized and kept Wilson's department running smoothly, which freed Wilson up to pander to House's needs. Not that House saw it as pandering; it was the only reasonable response to reality.

"Why should I let you listen to his personal messages? Or mine, for that matter?" she demanded.

"Because even I can't make a diagnosis without some information," House replied, as if explaining to a small child.

"And you think you can make a diagnosis from a phone message?"

He had made diagnoses from far less, which Pendleton knew very well. She sighed and accessed her voicemail on speakerphone.

"_Teresa, it's me. Dr. Wilson_." The clarification was smart. House barely recognised Wilson's voice. "_I think I've picked up a bug. Probably best if I don't come in_." That was typical Wilson. Not, "I feel like shit and need a day off" but "It'll be better for everybody else if I stay home." He noted the poorly muffled cough — dry, no wheeze. "_I'm turning my phone off for a couple of hours to try and sleep it off. Have Roland handle anything that can't wait._" That at least explained why he hadn't answered the calls or pages, not to mention the unwelcome presence of Roland in his conference room. It also indicated significant exhaustion. Wilson never turned his phone off. "_Sorry for the bother. I'll check in later._"

"Do you have a diagnosis or do I need to play it again?" Pendleton snipped.

House pretended to think about it. "Sore throat, coughing, weakness, fatigue. He always broadens his vowels like that when he's got a bad headache." The last was fabricated, but the headache was a given. "Differential diagnosis — influenza. He'll need an antiviral and at least three days bedrest, which he'll try to push to two. Best cancel his appointments for the week."

"Already done," Pendleton replied smugly. "And when you bring him the medicine, tell him I don't want to hear from him until tomorrow at the earliest."

"I don't do house calls," House said, fashioning his best look of disdain. "Why would I go out of my way to see patients when Cuddy keeps a collection of them down in the clinic just to torment me?"

Pendleton waved him away. "Tell him I hope he's feeling better."

House scowled and thumped his cane with extra emphasis as he walked away. It was bad enough Wilson could read him like a book. He didn't need to be training his assistant as well. He considered sending one of his minions to deliver the antiviral just to make a point, but while he trusted them with strangers, he didn't trust them with Wilson.

"Figured it out yet?" he asked when he got back to the office. He rummaged through the supply cabinet, filling his rarely used medical bag with everything he might need. He grabbed a pad and scribbled down a prescription. "Go get this filled for me," he ordered Taub.

"Zanamivir?" Taub asked, deciphering House's handwriting. "It's not a virus."

"How do you know what it isn't, when you don't know what it is?" He moved over to the kitchen area, grabbing tea bags, sugar, and creamers. There was nothing in the fridge that was useful, so he dug a handful of change out of his pocket and dumped it in front of Thirteen. "Get me some ginger ale and orange juice."

"What has this got to do with our patient?"

"It has absolutely nothing to do with your patient," House replied. "But it has everything to do with _my_ patient. Chop, chop. He's dehydrating while we debate."

Kutner was the first to catch on. "You think Dr. Wilson has the flu?"

"Gold star for Kutner," House proclaimed. "For that you get to find me a saline drip."

By the time they returned from their errands, House had dealt with all the emails he wanted to deal with and packed up his iPod and game console. He shoved everything he needed into his backpack and shrugged on his motorcycle jacket.

"Wait a minute," Foreman protested. "You're just going to leave?"

House glanced down at his jacket; frowned at his backpack. "It certainly appears that way."

"But we have a patient."

"Exactly. And so do I. They're just not the same person." He slung the backpack over one shoulder. "Let me know when you've figured it out. If Cuddy comes looking for me, I'm with a patient."

"Like she'll believe that," Thirteen scoffed.

"And yet it will be true." He ran a hand through his hair, impatient to be on his way. "Look, you can reach me on my cell phone if you need anything. Re-run the blood tests. And get a DNA analysis while you're at it."

"You think it's something genetic?" Foreman asked, diverted by the new possibility.

Kutner wasn't as easily diverted. "You're worried about Wilson, aren't you?" He correctly interpreted the glare that earned him. "Call us if you need anything. Or if he needs anything."

House nodded, annoyed at being caught in a near act of kindness, and checked the corridor for signs of Cuddy. He made a clean escape, sneaking out the back way to avoid walking past the clinic and Cuddy's office, and hopped on his motorcycle.

Fifteen minutes later, he hammered on the door of Wilson's apartment. He knocked again, wondering if he should have brought Foreman along to pick the lock, but he finally heard the sound of someone moving inside. There was a pause and the sound of coughing, and then the lock clicked open.

House turned the knob and pushed the door open. "Why didn't you call me?" he demanded. He stalked into the room and pushed the door closed with his cane. He glared at Wilson. It nicely camouflaged an involuntary flash of concern at Wilson's appearance.

He was dressed in a grey t-shirt and blue sweat pants, and his hair was tousled and stringy with dried sweat. Dark bags were smudged beneath his eyes, which were red-rimmed and glazed. "I'm sick," he whined. "I was trying to sleep."

House scowled. "You're never sick," he accused, but reached up and felt Wilson's forehead, almost gently. Hot and damp. "You've got a fever," he observed. "Other symptoms?"

"This isn't going to count towards your clinic hours, you know," Wilson warned, wincing and rubbing his forehead. He stumbled over to the couch and slumped into the cushions. House followed him and sat on the edge of the coffee table.

"Symptoms?" he repeated.

"Sore throat and a headache. Fatigue and fever." He lifted his arm to cover his mouth as he coughed again. "Coughing," he added with a slight smile. "But you already knew that or you wouldn't have come here armed with medical paraphernalia."

"Let's take your temperature," House said, sticking some paraphernalia in his ear. "102.6," he said, showing the thermometer to Wilson for confirmation. "You're sick."

Wilson groaned and curled onto his side. "I thought we'd already established that."

"Yeah, well, anything under 100 and I was going to call you a drama queen. But that's a pretty impressive showing. Achy?" House asked, leaning forward and carefully probing Wilson's face and neck. Wilson nodded, offering himself up reluctantly to a full prodding and poking. Glands were swollen, but not sensitive. No reaction to pressure on sinus points, but Wilson's eyes had the half-lidded look that signalled general pain with him. "Not a sinus infection," House observed at last. "But I'm thinking flu rather than a cold."

"No shit, Sherlock," Wilson grumbled. "I don't need a world-famous diagnostician to tell me what I already knew. What are you doing here anyway?"

House smirked at the backhanded compliment and then remembered that he was annoyed with Wilson. "You could have called to warn me that you weren't coming in," he snapped. "I needed a consult and you weren't in your office, and you didn't answer your pager or cell phone."

"There are other oncologists in the hospital," Wilson replied defensively.

"I don't like the other oncologists."

"Didn't Teresa tell you where I was? Maybe she didn't get my message. I'd better call." He stood up, intending to walk to the phone, but he swayed and House had to grab his arm to prevent him from toppling over.

"Sit down before you fall down," House ordered. "Pendleton has everything under control. She filled Kutner in when I sent him to find out why the hell you were ignoring me. She sent Roland back with him."

"I'm not sure who that would be more traumatic for — you or Roland," Wilson mused dryly.

"Definitely Roland," House replied with a touch of satisfaction.

Wilson groaned and curled into the side of the couch. "So now that you've terrorized my staff and satisfied your curiosity, you can congratulate yourself on a job well done and leave me alone." He coughed harshly and fisted one hand against his chest, groaning again.

House didn't like the sound of that. "How long have you been coughing like that?"

Wilson shrugged. "Most of the night. Didn't get much sleep."

That was evident. "Have you taken anything?" That was a stupid question. Wilson would have loaded up on vitamin C the second he started feeling poorly, but House had snooped through his medicine cabinet and he knew the contents were an embarrassment to the medical profession. All but the most benign over-the-counter medications had disappeared after Amber's death. "I brought you an antiviral," House continued. "You sounded like shit on the voicemail. Look like shit too."

"I try to be consistent," Wilson murmured, closing his eyes. But House shook his shoulder and forced him to sit up. "Stop it," he complained, batting House's hand away. "Let me sleep."

"Not on the couch and not until you take your meds." House pulled an inhaler out of his pocket, checked the dosage, and tried to hand it to Wilson. "Two puffs," he ordered.

But Wilson recoiled and pushed House's hand away. "I'm not taking it."

"Don't be an idiot. I realize it's not going to make you feel any better, but at least it will stop you from getting worse."

"It's the flu; I can ride it out. I'm not taking your damn antiviral."

His voice broke on the final word, and the picture snapped into focus. House kicked himself for not anticipating this. "It's zanamivir, not amantadine," he said, trying to stay patient. "What are you going to do in the clinic? Refuse to prescribe antivirals because your girlfriend poisoned herself with one that was already 90% resistant?"

But Wilson had curled in on himself and wasn't listening any longer. The newly healed friendship between them was still fragile enough that House wasn't willing to risk pushing too hard yet.

"I'll get you some Tylenol," he said quietly and limped towards the kitchen to get a glass of water. He turned and watched Wilson drag himself up and shuffle into the bedroom, his body hunched over and his arms curled around himself. At least Wilson still had basic pain medication in the cabinet.

When he got to the bedroom, Wilson was already burrowed under the covers, but shifting restlessly. "Come on," House murmured. "Sit up and take your pills like a good boy and then you can sleep."

Wilson made an annoyed noise, but pushed himself upright, swallowing the two pills House handed him and washing them down with the full glass of water. He slid back beneath the covers, muffling another cough in the pillow.

House watched him squirm and turn, trying to find a comfortable position. "I'll let you sleep," he said finally, unable to watch any longer. "Best thing for you now." He walked away, but paused in the doorway when he heard Wilson call his name out. He turned and saw Wilson looking at him, his eyes just peeking above the covers.

"Thanks for coming by," Wilson murmured. "Sorry for making you worry."

House shrugged and closed the door behind him.


	2. Wilson

It was hot. The room was dark, but the air was stale, stuffy. The bedclothes were suffocating him, and he pushed them off fretfully. He shifted about, trying to find a comfortable position, but his muscles twitched and his skin felt as if it were about to jump off his flesh, and he couldn't lie still.

He sat up and saw the outline of a glass on the bedside table. He picked it up and sipped tentatively, then gulped down the sweet, fresh water. His body craved more and he stood up, giving himself a moment to adjust to being upright again, and then shuffled towards the bedroom door, the glass clutched in both hands.

The door was closed, which explained why it was so stuffy. Maybe he'd open a window before he went back to bed.

He could hear the sound of voices coming from the living room and frowned. Even the short walk to the door had tired him, and he leaned against the wall, letting it support him as he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. The voices became more distinct, familiar, which only made him more confused. He peered into the room, surprised — and then not surprised — to see three-quarters of House's team sprawled about his living room, files and test results spread over the coffee table.

"If I'd known I was having a party, I would have stocked up on chips." He was pleased that his voice sounded relatively strong. He was even more pleased by the slightly guilty looks that flashed across the faces of House's fellows. "Where's Foreman? On a beer run?"

"He's keeping an eye on the patient. What are you doing up?" House demanded, not looking guilty at all. "I closed the door so we wouldn't disturb you." It was as close to penitent as House was likely to get.

"Tired of sleeping," he muttered, looking longingly at the couch a few feet away.

Thirteen hurried over to his side. "How are you feeling, Dr. Wilson?" she asked. "Can I get you something to drink?"

He looked down at the glass in his hands and nodded, letting her lead him to the couch. "Why are you still here?" he asked House.

House smirked at him. "Taking a sick day. No point in wasting them when you're actually sick."

That was typical House logic. He cocked his head and watched as House wrote something on the window with what looked like a tube of lipstick. "I hope you're planning on washing that off."

"Saving lives here, Wilson," House replied breezily, stepping aside to display the list of symptoms. "Show him the scans."

Kutner looked apologetic as he handed a folder to Wilson. Wilson squinted his eyes to bring the images into focus. "Did you show these to Roland?" he asked.

"We kind of hoped you'd take a look at them as well," Taub said, exchanging a guilty look with Kutner.

Wilson didn't know whether to be flattered that they valued his opinion or concerned that they were doing an end run around one of his senior attendings. He sighed and tried to concentrate on the case instead. He stood up, holding each scan closer to the light for a clearer look. "A first-year resident could identify the mass in the kidney. What aren't you telling me?" He didn't need to see the slight smirk on House's face to know that Roland hadn't asked that question. But Roland didn't know how House's team worked. "Show me the blood work."

Taub had it ready to hand to him. The numbers jumped in front of his eyes and he rubbed his forehead before looking again. "It's a cyst," he said. But House already knew that, so if he was showing Wilson the scan, the cyst had to be important. He squinted again at the window, noting the neurological symptoms. They triggered a memory of another patient, not that long ago. It was a different presentation, but the pieces fit together to make the same picture. "Have you done a CT scan?"

"Looking for?" House prompted.

Wilson scowled at him and sat back down. "You known damn well what you're looking for." He started to cough and for a moment couldn't catch his breath. Thirteen handed him a glass of water and he drank it gratefully, leaning back and closing his eyes.

"Hemangioblastomas," Taub said. "You're thinking..."

"Von Hippel-Lindau disease," House proclaimed, before Taub could come up with the diagnosis. "CT's scheduled for tomorrow morning."

Wilson rubbed his forehead again, a headache building behind his eyes. "I suppose Roland ruled out cancer and walked away," he sighed. "You should schedule surgery to remove the renal cyst. They have a high proclivity to turn cancerous." He shivered and wondered if someone had opened a window. How had it gotten so cold? He wrapped his arms around his body, trying to contain the chills. A moment later somebody settled a blanket over him and a soft hand brushed against his forehead.

"Back off, Thirteen," House snapped. "I know he's all rumpled and irresistible right now, but that's no reason to switch back to the home team."

"He's really hot, House," Thirteen retorted, sounding worried, and Wilson opened his eyes to see her leaning over him.

"That's what all the dying women say," House retorted, but joined her for his own assessment. Wilson flinched at the cold palm against his cheek and forehead. "Your fever's up," House said, looking as worried as Thirteen sounded.

"Is your hand digital?" Wilson murmured, managing a cocky smile. He didn't like seeing House worried about him.

It worked marginally. "Do you doubt my super-human diagnostic skills? Fifty bucks says I'm within one-tenth of a degree."

Wilson had learned the hard way never to take House's bets on things like that, but Kutner was still gullible. "I'll take that bet," he said, producing a digital thermometer from a medical bag by the couch. "Make your guess."

House felt Wilson's forehead again. "I never guess," he replied. "103.7."

Not leaving anything to chance, Kutner took Wilson's temperature himself. "103.6," he said, reaching for his wallet.

But House wasn't interested in the money. "It's gone up a degree since I've been here. You shouldn't be out of bed."

"It's just the flu, House," Wilson protested.

"It killed 40 million worldwide between 1918 and 1920."

And one in Princeton this spring, Wilson thought.

"Let's get you back to bed," House said softly, and Wilson knew their memories had travelled down parallel paths. "You've earned your keep for the day."

The last thing Wilson wanted to do was move, but House was tugging on his arm and Wilson let himself be pulled up. Kutner and Taub hovered nearby, and when he faltered after only a few steps, they scooped their arms around him and essentially carried him to the bedroom.

"Sorry about the bet," he muttered, as Kutner helped him into bed.

Kutner shrugged. "Should have known better than to take it when you didn't."

"Did Roland really not look at any alternatives?" he asked wearily, wondering if he would have to speak to his senior doctor.

"To be fair," Taub said, "he was pretty much under siege. House wasn't happy about having to deal with someone other than you, and I doubt Roland wanted any reason to prolong the encounter."

Wilson groaned. "Tell me House didn't call him a moron," he begged. "Tell me I'm not going to find a letter of resignation on my desk."

"I don't think it was that bad," Taub said with relative conviction. "House tolerates Roland. He just doesn't want to talk to him. Next time, do us all a favour. Call House to let him know you're not coming in. I thought he was going to hit something or somebody when you didn't answer his calls."

Wilson rubbed his eyes. "He does realise I have a life, doesn't he? I can't be at his beck and call all the time." Yet he knew he was just being defensive. He should have called House.

"You don't get it," Kutner said. "The last time you didn't answer his calls, you resigned and threatened to leave the state. I think he was actually relieved when he found out you'd called in sick, but he still skipped work to make a house call. He'll probably kill me for telling you that," he mused, but didn't seem particularly concerned. "I hope you don't get sick too often."

Wilson managed a tight smile, even as he wondered how much interference he was going to have to run to get House back in Cuddy's good books after this stunt. "Don't worry. Every few years or so." He didn't count the occasional sore throat or headache that he usually managed to beat back before it developed too far. The last time he had been really sick — spend the day in bed kind of sick — he had woken up to find House and Julie glaring at each other across his bed. It had been as good as an inoculation to his system — it wasn't a scene he'd ever want to repeat. But this time Julie wouldn't be there. Amber wouldn't be there. House had still come, though. A coughing jag helped disguise the sudden tears that sprang to his eyes.

Thirteen joined them, carrying the inhaler and another glass of water. "He told me to make sure you took your meds. He said I was welcome to use my feminine wiles if you balked."

Wilson crossed his arms over his chest. He knew he looked like a sulky child, but he knew House's moves too well to allow an end run on him. "I'm not taking the antiviral. This is just going to have to run its course."

"He knew you'd say that. Which is why he wants you to at least take the Tylenol." She pulled the bottle from her pocket and shook two pills loose.

He swallowed the pills. "Tell House he doesn't need to stick around. I'll be all right."

"I doubt anybody will be able to budge House," Kutner replied dryly. "He has a sure-fire way to avoid clinic duty, he has his diagnosis, and he has your big-screen TV. Who could ask for more?"

"How about satellite and a decent DVD collection? Even your porn is pathetic," House complained, stalking in. "Scat," he said to the fellows. "You're done for the day. Let me know what the results of the CT are." He waited while his team said goodbye and then perched on the side of the bed, holding out a steaming mug. "Drink this," he ordered.

Wilson eyed it curiously, hesitating.

"I'm not trying to poison you," House snapped, forcing the mug into Wilson's hands.

He sipped and his eyes widened with delight. "Oxtail soup? You remembered?"

House shrugged and looked away. "Yeah, well, kind of hard to forget the heresy of a Jewish doctor turning up his nose at chicken soup. I'm shocked your mother hasn't disowned you."

"It was my mother's favourite," Wilson replied. He took another sip. "One of the times I nearly blinded myself..." He glanced up as House sputtered out a laugh. "What?"

"Oh come on," House exclaimed. "You can't make a statement like that and not expect me to bust you. Exactly how many times did you nearly blind yourself as a child?"

Wilson squinted, trying to remember. "Two, maybe three, if you count the time I rode my bike into a tree." He fingered an old scar just below his left eyebrow. "It took an hour for them to pick out all the debris that was embedded in my mouth. But that's not the time I was trying to talk about," he said pointedly.

House waved him forward, his eyes dancing with delight. "Don't let me stop your childhood reminiscences. Which time was it?"

"It was either the time I fell face first onto a rock off the jungle gym, or the time I snapped my swim goggles into my eyes," he mused. "Or the time my older brother bushwhacked me in the face with a branch down by the river."

House couldn't contain his laughter. "You're already up to four. I'm surprised your parents let you leave the house."

"I hate you," Wilson muttered.

"Inexplicably, you don't. Go on. You were blind. Or not. And somehow oxtail soup was involved."

"It must have been the goggles incident," Wilson decided. "I think that was the only time both my eyes were bandaged. I couldn't see at all, and I wouldn't let anybody feed me, so my mother made me soup in a mug. Oxtail soup. And I sat on the couch in the family room, wedged between my parents, listening to _Gone with the Wind_ on TV. And that's what I think of every time I smell oxtail soup." He glanced warily at House, expecting to be mocked, but House seemed more perplexed than amused.

"And that's a good memory?"

Wilson sipped some more of the soup, letting the warmth lead him back in time. "Yeah," he murmured. He had been hurting, he had been scared, but with his father's arm around him and his mother gently stroking his hair, he had been loved. He realised, with some surprise, that the soup was finished. He didn't think he had been hungry, but nearly 24 hours had passed since his last meal.

House took the mug from his hands and put it down before laying his hand against Wilson's forehead. He frowned. "If your temperature doesn't go down within the hour I'm giving you the antiviral whether you like it or not."

There was no point in arguing, so Wilson just slid further under the covers. "Open the window," he said. "It's stuffy in here."

"That's the fever talking," House retorted. "I'm not opening the window so you can get chilled."

"Then at least leave the door open. Unless you're planning on having any more guests."

"I cancelled the hooker for tonight. Your couch isn't exactly conducive to hot sex."

Wilson smirked. "Some would beg to differ." He chuckled as House made an exaggerated moue of disgust, but he struggled to maintain his grin at House's retort.

"Better than a waterbed at least."

His chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with illness, but he coughed anyway, turning away from House, as if to avoid infecting him. Amber had been gone for nearly six months. It shouldn't still hurt like this. A hand settled tentatively on his back, rubbing gently between his shoulder blades, and the pressure in his chest eased. He smiled as he drifted back to sleep. With House it wasn't important what he said; it was what he did.


	3. Cuddy

Cuddy knocked on the door of Wilson's apartment. She shifted from foot to foot while she waited, wondering if she should have called ahead. Finally the door opened and House stared at her, neither welcoming nor repentant. "I thought I might find you here," she muttered.

"Good for you. You found me. What do you want?" He didn't step aside to let her in.

"I dropped by to see if Wilson needed anything." She peered over his shoulder, trying to see if Wilson was covering up evidence of their usual childish behaviour while House distracted her.

"Checking to make sure he isn't playing hooky?" House demanded. "Did you think he was faking it? Shirking his responsibilities?"

She hadn't seriously thought that, but she bristled at his tone. "You mean like you? You can't just leave the hospital and expect your team to cover for you."

House glanced at his watch. "Seems to me they did a pretty good job, if it's taken until now for you to track me down."

"I had better things to do than chase after absentee department heads."

"And I had better things to do than sit in my office waiting for lab results."

"Oh, right. Like hanging out and watching television with your best friend. That's not what I pay you for, House."

"I don't care what you think of me," he said, his voice harsh with anger. "But he deserves better than that from you. When was the last time he took a sick day?"

She didn't know. She'd been able to give him a two-month leave after Amber died because he hadn't taken a sick day or extended vacation for as long as she could remember. House might lead Wilson astray from time to time when he was at work, but he always showed up. And even his participation in House's schemes was with her tacit consent, as long as it kept House out of worse trouble. "Is he all right?" she asked, beginning to worry.

House finally stepped aside. "See for yourself," he said.

There was no sign of Wilson in the living room. And the only signs of House were a few files spread over the coffee table. No empty pizza boxes, no game consoles, no DVD covers with dubious titles. She hesitated, and then followed House around the corner to the master bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, but the lights were off and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust.

House nudged her forward with his cane and she moved to the side of the bed, looking down at its restlessly sleeping occupant. Instinctively she reached down and felt Wilson's forehead, looking sharply at House when she registered the fever. "How high?" she whispered, her hand dropping to check his pulse.

"104.1, last time I checked," House whispered back. "It's been getting higher all day. The Tylenol knocked it back a bit earlier, but it started to spike again a little while ago."

Cuddy looked around and saw a basin and cloth on the nightstand next to a pitcher of water. She soaked the cloth and wrung it out, then laid it on Wilson's forehead. He moaned at the touch, his eyelashes fluttering slightly. Cuddy stroked his cheek with the back of her hand.

"Amber," Wilson muttered, leaning into her touch.

She didn't snatch her hand away, but couldn't stop herself from flinching. House noticed. House noticed everything.

"It could be worse," he shrugged. "He could've called you Mom."

Cuddy drew the cloth across Wilson's face, wiping away beads of sweat as quickly as they formed. "Do you think we need to admit him?" she asked.

House shook his head. "Not unless you want him to sulk for weeks about it. His temperature always shoots up like this when he's sick. Last time the wicked witch of west Princeton called me in a panic, thinking he was dying." He smirked, but there was no humour in his voice, and no spark in his eyes as he watched Wilson shift restlessly.

Cuddy frowned, feigning disapproval at House's favourite nickname for Wilson's third wife, though she hadn't particularly liked Julie either. She tried to imagine House and Julie teaming up to look after Wilson. There had been no love lost between the two of them, but they had both loved Wilson, in their own ways. She supposed it was common ground of a kind. "You could have told me," she said softly. "I wouldn't have argued with you."

House chuckled mirthlessly. "What was I supposed to say? Give me the day off because Wilson's sick?"

"If you'd explained to me instead of getting your staff to cover and lie for you..." She shook her head in frustration. "He's my friend too. You don't hold a monopoly on worrying about him."

"Who says I was worried?" House blustered back. "I just wanted a day off to watch my soaps in peace." But when Wilson moaned again and moved his head from side to side, he leaned over Wilson. "Easy, chief," he murmured. "Settle down."

Wilson's lashes fluttered again and this time his eyelids cracked open. "House," he whispered, his voice nearly inaudible. "Is Amber here? I thought..." His eyes tracked around the room, memory flooding back when he saw Cuddy. "Cuddy? Is everything all right?"

She managed a reassuring smile, even though her heart was breaking. "That's what I came to see for myself. How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay," he replied, though he wouldn't meet her gaze.

"You're an idiot," House retorted. He gazed at Wilson with narrowed eyes, cataloguing his appearance. "Your head is killing you, it hurts to breathe, and you wish you could jump out of your skin."

"Why did you ask if you knew the answer?" Wilson said tiredly, closing his eyes again.

"I didn't ask — Cuddy did." He shook Wilson's shoulder. "Come on, sit up. I need to listen to your chest." He gestured for Cuddy to hand him the stethoscope while he manhandled Wilson upright. Wilson flinched when the cold metal touched hot flesh, but House was focused on what his ears picked up. "Breathe deeply," he ordered. This time Wilson flinched with pain. "Again. Cough."

Wilson shook his head. "Hurts," he protested.

House rapped him sharply between the shoulder blades. "Cough," he ordered again.

This time, Wilson had no choice, as a coughing jag ripped through his body. Each paroxysm left him gasping for air, which set off another round of harsh, painful coughing. At last it tapered away and Cuddy poured him a glass of water.

"Try to drink something."

Wilson shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. "Not thirsty," he muttered.

"Too bad," she said, trying for a stern tone and failing miserably. "You're getting dehydrated." She looked up and caught House's eye. He frowned and went out of the room, returning a moment later with a glass of ginger ale.

"Drink this," he ordered, pressing the glass against Wilson's lips. "You need the sugar."

Wilson shook his head and tried to push the glass away, but House was unrelenting, tilting the glass until Wilson was forced to open his mouth to stop the liquid from spilling down his front. House waited until he swallowed, watched to make sure it would stay down, and tilted again. This time Wilson drank willingly and finished the glass with small, steady sips.

"Good boy," House said, with only a trace of sarcasm in his voice. "We'll wait a little while and then I want you to drink a full glass of orange juice." He shook his head when Wilson grimaced. "I don't want to put you on a saline drip, but I will if I have to. Or we can take you to the hospital and they won't give you a choice at all."

Wilson didn't reply, just rolled onto his side, facing away from House and Cuddy. House sighed. "Don't be stupid. You're sick. I know you hate this and I appreciate that the natural order of the universe has been shattered, but you need someone to look after you."

Few people could give Greg House a run for the money in terms of stubbornness, but apparently Wilson was a strong contender. He burrowed deeper under the covers, ignoring House completely.

"Let me try," Cuddy whispered. She sat down next to Wilson, and stroked a hand through his hair. "Do you remember last month when I had a migraine and you found me in the bathroom puking my guts out?"

"You followed Cuddy into the bathroom?" House exclaimed. "You dog."

Cuddy jabbed him in the stomach with her elbow. "You're not helping," she hissed. "Go get the orange juice." Gently she pulled at Wilson's shoulder until he reluctantly rolled onto his back, immediately covering his face with one arm. "You held my hair back," she continued softly, brushing Wilson's hair off his hot forehead. "And then you helped me back to the couch and took care of me until the meds kicked in." She brushed tiny circles around his temples, a faint imitation of the massage he had given her that had helped the pain recede. "And the entire time you kept telling me that everything was fine and that it was all right to let someone else be in charge for once." She smiled when he dropped his arm and looked up at her. "Were you lying to me?"

He didn't respond, but there was something so broken and vulnerable in his expression that it twisted her stomach. She saw House walk back in with the glass of juice, his expression grave, and didn't think he was any more immune to Wilson's pain than she was. "Will you drink the juice for us?"

He nodded and took the glass from House, holding it steady with both hands, and drank slowly, his brows knit in concentration.

"The pills, too," House said, tipping out a Tylenol-aspirin cocktail.

Wilson grimaced and coughed heavily into his elbow before meekly swallowing the pills with the rest of the juice to wash them down. House nodded approvingly. "I'll have you trained as a drug addict in no time."

"Not funny," Wilson muttered, lying back down and curling onto his side. He shivered. "Did you open a window?" he asked. "I'm freezing."

"Your fever's up again," House retorted. "Or is basic medical knowledge eluding you?" He frowned, looking worried. "A couple of hours ago he was out-diagnosing the idiots you let me hire. Cognitive dysfunction is indicative of delirium."

Mistaking her for his dead girlfriend was fairly indicative as well. "I'll go get another blanket for the bed. Where does he keep them?" She had no doubt House had mapped every inch of Wilson's apartment.

"I'll get one. I wouldn't want you to find where he hides his porn."

Cuddy straightened out the bedclothes, tucking them around Wilson. "How are you really feeling?" she asked softly when she saw that he was relatively alert and looking at her.

"All right," he whispered. "I think I might need tomorrow off, though."

She laughed and shook her head. "I think you'll need the rest of the week. I want your watchdog back as soon as your fever breaks, though."

Wilson squirmed until he was mostly upright. "Don't be too hard on him," he said. "It was my fault. He wouldn't have come over if I'd just called him."

"Why didn't you?" she asked, though it occurred to her that perhaps he had wanted House to come, consciously or not.

Wilson shrugged. "I don't know. I wasn't thinking much beyond making sure I covered my appointments. I guess I didn't think it was that big a deal."

She brushed his bangs off his forehead. "You have a high fever, James," she chided. "You're too sick to be on your own." Immediately she knew it had been the wrong thing to say. Whether it was the first name — the last person who'd called him "James" was Amber — or the ill-advised reminder that he was now alone, it caused him to look away and bite his lower lip.

He looked impossibly young and fragile, and while she knew it was an illusion, she reacted instinctively and pulled him into a hug. His face was hot and dry in the crook of her neck, the sweat burned away before it had a chance to form. His back muscles were taut under her hands, but then he relaxed and reached up and grabbed hold of her shoulders as if she were a life raft and he were drowning. She rocked him slightly as chills rippled through his body. "Shhh. It's all right," she murmured, stroking one hand through his hair. "You're not alone." His grip relaxed and he slumped against her, barely conscious.

House returned, a blanket slung over his shoulder. "Really, Cuddy. Seducing a sick man. That's desperate, even for you."

"Shut up," she snapped, her voice cracking. "Just shut up and help me. His fever's spiking." To her surprise he did as she asked, moving around to the other side of the bed.

"Let's lay him down," he said, taking Wilson's weight as she eased him off her shoulder. He settled Wilson gently on the bed and then reached for the thermometer on the bedside table. "104.9," he muttered grimly, scowling at the reading. "Up nearly a degree in less than an hour. It's show time." He snapped on the bedside lamp, casting a harsh glow over the bed.

"What are you talking about?"

Wilson's eyes fluttered open and closed and his cheeks were splotched with vivid red fever marks, but the chills had eased slightly.

"His fever either breaks or we're calling an ambulance." House grabbed the cloth and dipped it in the basin of water. "Go get another cloth and some more water. And grab the container of juice from the fridge. We need to keep getting liquids in him."

Cuddy rushed to follow instructions. There was no point in arguing. She could carry supplies in both hands. When she returned, House had pulled Wilson's t-shirt off and was sponging down his face and chest. Cuddy settled on the other side and added her own efforts to the cooling process. They worked quietly and efficiently together. She had to change the water several times, and when cool cloths didn't work fast enough for House, she made icepacks that they positioned in Wilson's armpits and groin.

He roused slightly at the sudden change of temperature and blinked his eyes open. His unfocused gaze moved lazily around the room until it settled on House. Recognition sharpened his expression, but his first words proved it illusory.

"Michael?" Wilson whispered. "Michael, tell Mom I can't go to school today. Don't feel well."

House flinched. "I will, Jimmy. You just rest and get better." He turned away, reaching for the cloth again, but Wilson clutched his shirtsleeve.

"Don't go, Michael," he cried. "You promised not to leave again."

"I'm right here. I won't leave you." He took Wilson's hand and squeezed. He glared at Cuddy, daring her to comment. "I promise."

Wilson blinked back tears and then nodded, closing his eyes again and drifting back into a restless sleep.

"Who's Michael?" Cuddy whispered. She'd met Wilson's brother several times, most recently at Amber's funeral, and she was sure his name was Peter. It occurred to her that she knew very little about Wilson, despite having worked with him for more than a decade. He had listened to her talk about her affectionately frustrating relationship with her mother, had supported her decision to adopt and written a reference letter that was both glowing and insightful, and yet she didn't even know the name of his first wife.

"Someone who just made me a liar," House replied harshly. He didn't elaborate and Cuddy didn't press. House might pursue gossip with the single-minded purpose of a Javert, but he could be surprisingly closed-mouthed when he chose. He checked Wilson's temperature again and shook his head. "No change."

"At least it hasn't gotten higher," she pointed out. But that was little comfort as Wilson continued to toss restlessly and mutter to himself, no matter when they did. They managed to rouse him slightly, and she slipped behind Wilson, keeping him upright while House force-fed him sips of water.

"Amber," he whispered, and she closed her eyes, knowing that if she looked at Wilson, or looked at House, she would start to cry. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice a little stronger.

"Why are you sorry, James?" she asked, the instinct to respond as Amber too strong to resist.

"You didn't get the job. You didn't get what you wanted."

She glanced up when House sucked in a sharp breath. The guilt that she'd looked for after Amber's death was etched into his face.

"Tell him I offered her the job if she would break up with him, but she refused."

Cuddy wrapped her arms around Wilson and hugged him tightly. She would deal with House and that little revelation later. "I got what I wanted," she said firmly. "You're more important to me than any job. House was just pissed off because he knew that."

House snorted, but didn't argue. At Wilson's next wistful words, however, he stood up and walked out of the bedroom.

"I wish you could be friends."

Cuddy remembered the custody battle and the punishment she'd imposed, and she remembered how Wilson had laughed when he told her about House and Amber changing bedpans and making hospital beds together. "I think they could have been," she replied, and without House to watch, she wept for all that might have been and all that was lost.

Wilson sighed deeply and slipped into a quieter sleep. When she checked his temperature again, it had dropped nearly a full degree, but still she held onto him until her tears dried.

House was sitting on the couch, a half-glass of bourbon before him, when she went out to check on him. He handed her the bottle and a glass when she sat down next to him, and she poured herself a generous measure. "I thought he was over Amber," Cuddy said when she couldn't take the silence any longer. "It's been six months." But it wasn't as if there was a time limit on grief. And while Wilson had seemed to be coping since his return to the hospital, she knew he wouldn't have let her see anything else.

"Wilson doesn't get over things — he just buries them so deeply that he never has to deal with them. Except that never works." House looked away. "He wouldn't take an antiviral, even though wasn't amantadine."

"Does that surprise you?" she asked, her heart aching afresh for Wilson. "I know it bothers you, but grief isn't rational."

"He stopped going to his support group. He thinks he's fine, but he's not."

Cuddy didn't bother asking how he knew that. She hadn't seen any suspicious bills from Diagnostics recently, but she suspected House still had that oddly charming PI on speed dial. "You have to give him time, House."

"I've given him time. I gave him two months to grieve alone, and then I gave him another two months to pretend we weren't friends any more, and now I've given him two months to convince himself that everything is normal again. Look how well that worked."

"It's the flu. Everybody gets it."

"Not Wilson. He's the first in line for a flu shot every year. He's got a disgustingly hearty constitution. Until it all catches up to him, and then I'm stuck playing nurse without a union contract."

"You did this with Julie?" Cuddy asked.

House smirked at the disbelief in her voice. "What part of that surprises you? Her, me, or the two of us together?"

What was most surprising was that he was the least surprising element. "Julie," she said finally, causing his eyebrows to shoot up in genuine confusion. "I don't pretend to understand your friendship, but I don't deny it either," Cuddy said. "You were capable of putting aside your dislike of Julie for Wilson's sake. If she could have done the same, maybe the marriage would have lasted."

Amber, she thought, might have been able to do it. She and House would have argued boisterously over courses of treatment, snapping at each other's heels like terriers defending their territory, but Wilson would have basked and flourished under the warmth of their combined attention. She wondered if Wilson's matchmaking efforts between her and House had been born from a desire for someone else to have the happiness that kept eluding him.

"Are you planning on staying here tonight?" she asked, glancing at House, who was far more comfortable in Wilson's home than he ever had been in hers.

House shrugged. "Not that it's any of your business where I spend my nights, but yeah. I don't break my promises."

Cuddy remembered what he'd said to Wilson in the midst of his delirium and nodded in understanding. "Do you need anything? Juice? Medicine? Porn?" She was rewarded with an almost imperceptible smile.

"I got the kids to stock us up earlier. Thirteen has great taste in porn."

There were too many things wrong with that sentence for her to know where to begin objecting. She could hear Wilson coughing in the bedroom, and her stomach clenched with worry. "Are you sure he'll be all right?"

The smile faded. "No. But he'll get over it. He always does."

She knew he was talking about more than the flu. "I'll go check on him," she offered, but House shook his head.

"Finish your drink," he said. "I'll shout if we need anything."

Cuddy hoped he meant that. Someone had to look out for Wilson, since Wilson was apparently incapable of looking out for himself. She'd always thought that House was the one who needed Wilson, but the few times she had talked to Wilson after Amber died, after he'd resigned, he had seemed diminished by more than grief. Without Amber, he had been without happiness, but without House, he had been without purpose. As for House, he had been almost giddy since Wilson's return, the happiest she'd seen him since the ketamine failed.

She took her glass to the kitchen, but left the bottle on the table. The fridge was indeed well stocked with juice and ginger ale, and she found a pot of leftover chili that she put on the stove to reheat. She checked the freezer and smiled when she saw a tub of ice cream haphazardly balanced on top of a homemade lasagne. Both House and Wilson had stocked up.

House walked quietly up behind her as she stirred the chili. "His fever broke," he said. "He won't be good for much of anything the next few days, but the worst is over."

He looked tired, but content, and Cuddy realized she hadn't seen him take a Vicodin or lean heavily on his cane since she'd arrived, despite all the time he'd spent on his feet. "Take tomorrow off," she said on impulse. "Wednesday, too, if you can keep him from coming in. I'll mark them down as sick days."

He laughed softly to himself. "No point in wasting them when you're actually sick."

The toilet flushed, and a moment later Wilson shuffled into the living room, bleary-eyed and sleep-tousled. "I'm tired of lying down," he complained, stretching out the length of the couch.

House rolled his eyes, but hurried over before Wilson could claim the remote. "Guests choose," he said, pushing Wilson's feet out of the way so he could sit down.

There wasn't room for three, but then there rarely was where House and Wilson were concerned. Cuddy decided to change the sheets and tidy up the bedroom. When she came out, they were still bickering over the selections on Wilson's TiVo.

"I'll leave you two to your dubious entertainment," she said. "There's chili on the stove. Don't let it burn."

Wilson struggled to sit up. "You should stay for some dinner," he said, dragging House over to clear room for her. "We're watching _The French Connection_."

"We're watching _Hot Fuzz_," House retorted.

Neither sounded appealing, especially when she had a meeting at seven the next morning. "Another time." She leaned down and pressed her lips lightly to Wilson's forehead, relieved to find it still cool and dry. House smirked at her, so she pecked him on the cheek before grabbing her coat to leave. He made a show of wiping his face in mock disgust, but when she was almost out the door, she heard Wilson call out, "Thank you," followed by a reluctant, gruffer echo.

She looked back. They'd compromised on _Lethal Weapon_ and were watching intently, Wilson listing slightly against House's shoulder. "Night, boys," she said and closed the door behind them.


End file.
